Fire And Spice. Karen Van Der ZeeЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER TWO

      ALL through the day Zoe kept thinking of Bryant Sinclair, seeing his blue eyes, aware of the warm feeling curling around in her stomach. Yet other, conflicting thoughts fought for attention-a father denying there might be a problem with his son, a father obviously not wanting to take it seriously and discuss it. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.

      It was not going to be easy. Yet she was determined to try to help Paul. It was her job. And there was something about the boy, the vulnerable look in his eyes, that touched her.

      She had lunch with a couple of teachers and the bubbly school secretary, who was a consummate gossip. Ann had her very own plug into the Washington grapevine.

      Ann had noticed Bryant leave Zoe’s office that morning. She knew his address and she knew who he was and she was eager to tell all. Bryant Sinclair came from a wealthy family who owned the international corporation for which he worked, according to the school files. He’d headed up large projects in various places around the world, most recently in Argentina. Some business magazine-Ann couldn’t remember which-had done an article on Bryant and the projects he’d managed. He had been married once, years ago, but what had happened to his wife nobody knew.

      Various possibilities were offered. Zoe listened and said nothing, chewing her sandwich.

      The other puzzle discussed was the reason why a man like Bryant Sinclair would live in a rented apartment, be it a nice one. And wasn’t it Zoe’s good fortune to live in the same building? Imagine the possibilities!

      ‘Have you been inside his place?’ Ann asked Zoe, her eyes wide and eager.

      Zoe said no and asked if anyone wanted more coffee. She was not comfortable discussing Bryant Sinclair, although, if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit to being curious like crazy.

      By the time she locked her office at four, she was more then ready to go home. It was a long but pleasant walk back to her apartment and the air was still full of late summer warmth. Chrysanthemums bloomed in a glowing array of warm autumn colors in the small city gardens and in pots arranged along stone steps. She hadn’t been home during the fall for years and she’d forgotten how beautiful they were.

      She had not yet purchased a car and so far she had managed without one, walking and using the Metro or taxis for longer distances. Maybe she could wait till spring, when it would be nice to be able to get out into the countryside.

      She stopped at the bakery and bought some dark, crusty bread. A young woman with a new-born baby in her arms was looking longingly at the apple strudel. Zoe peered into the tiny, sleeping face, feeling overwhelmed with sudden longing. She wanted a baby, to hold close and to love. She wanted a man, to hold close and to love. Preferably first the man, then the baby, she thought wryly as she moved on down the street hugging her purchases to her chest. She was twenty-nine. It was perfectly normal to want these things. She intended to be a great wife and a super-cool mom. She grinned at herself. A lot easier said than done, but she was ready for the challenge. Sometimes she felt as if she would burst with the need to give her love—as if she carried inside her a large supply that would overflow if she didn’t dispense it.

      You are nuts, she told herself, and put thoughts of loving and bursting out of her mind.

      Reaching the town house, she skipped up the stone steps to the front door and opened it. Inside the entryway she checked her mail. There was a letter from Nick, which gave her a jolt of pleasure, and she rushed up the stairs to her apartment, eager to read it. She made a pot of tea, changed out of her suit into jeans and a T-shirt, and plunked herself on the sofa with the letter.

      Nick was a science teacher at the boarding-school in Cameroon where she had worked for three years herself. He told her of the people she knew-the couple that had married in a lavish tribal ceremony, the latest news of the students and the teachers, the herbalist who had cured the pain in his foot with a magic potion, the Spanish cultural attaché he loved.

      My Spanish princess has forsaken me for another. How dare she? you may ask. Actually, I think she wanted a prince. I am not a prince; I am from New Jersey. None the less I am devastated. Loneliness creeps in every nook and cranny of my existence. Why did you have to leave, Zoe? You were my best friend. You should have been here to comfort me in my time of distress.

      What am I to do? I spend my nights in isolation, unless Jacob comes by with palm wine and then we sit and discuss the cassava harvest and the mysteries of the female psyche and I drink too much and become very undignified, which I sincerely regret the next morning. Loneliness is a devastating condition, possibly terminal. I so long for your lethal chocolate-chip coconut cookies and your riveting conversation, but your house stands empty when I, ever hopeful of a miracle, pass by.

      We all miss you. We miss your house and the comfort and friendship we found within its crooked walls, not to speak of the culinary delights. Your house was a haven of domesticity in this land of deprivation.

      Needless to say, I ask myself daily why I am still here, turning grayer every day. Why I stay in this godforsaken dusty little African town. The reason is that I like it.

      I so hope you are happy in your swishy apartment in the nation’s capital. In moments of despair I soothe myself trying to visualize it lots of plants. Lovely flowered teacups. A cozy wood fire on cold nights. The heavenly aroma of something baking in the oven.

      I hope you find what you’re looking for, Zoe. I can see you already in my mind’s eye, sitting on a sofa, a handsome husband by your side, a baby on your lap with your lovely big brown eyes and warm smile. How serene an image!

      Sometimes I wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life here in Africa, growing little by little into a mad eccentric.

      Zoe laughed out loud. Nick was an eccentric already. He was forty years old, had never been married and had lived all over the world, settling here and there for a few years to teach or do other work that seemed interesting.

      And she, of course, had been heading the same direction-straight into mad eccentricity. One steamy night she’d woken in a cold sweat and seen the warning written on the ceiling: Go home! Be normal!

      Zoe picked up the pretty flowered teapot and refilled her cup. Sipping at the hot, strong tea, she finished the letter. Poor Nick. All alone in a small African town.

      Poor me, she thought suddenly, all alone in a big American town. She grimaced. ‘Oh, stop it,’ she muttered out loud. After all, this was what she had wantedto come back to the States, settle down and grow some roots. Growing roots. It called up images of flourishing, large-leaved plants flowering luxuriantly and spreading sweet perfume. It was a lovely vision and it made her smile.

      Putting Nick’s letter on the table, she came to her feet and wandered around the small apartment. It was a lovely place with solid oak doors and hardwood floors dating back a hundred and fifty years. She stood in front of the window which had a view of a narrow, tree-lined street of other historic town houses with gabled roofs